POETRY

Willing

by R. Newell


What is love
but the joining of searching souls,
the melding of merging minds ever open
to joyous adventures and magical probabilities?

What is it,
this unrelenting thing,
this clasping, clamping, crimping thing
that bends steely static with changeability?

It is
breathtakingly
glorious pure vivacious
energy rhythmically pulsing
in conscious unison with another willing being.

Willing.
Willing to open
to possibility. Willing to surrender,
unconditionally, everything. Willing more than
wanting; wanting more than needing. Loving is not leaving,

is not you,
is not me, is not
pretense comprised
of fabricated fearful could-be's.

It is willful
selfless communion,
glowing ecstasy, beaming

divinity. Quite simply, love is us.

Pouring

by R. Newell

The pendulum swings

to the mechanical ticking of time defused

by the clicking of amber relief poured over cubed ice caged in Waterford Crystal.

The succulent slow pouring

of a tall broad shouldered soul into a stemmed glass

brimming with Burgundy rimmed with crimson wax lip prints. The pouring of life's liquor

like clear licorice oozing

from a bulbous bottle into richly roasted espresso.

Pouring, pouring, pouring more of something, less of nothing, pouring,

drenching, quenching, lusting

loves unflinching. Pour me, drink me, love me,

baby...please. T' is a smooth thing, easy and inviting. Lift the glass, lift it high

and kiss me

then spin me 'round the floor.

Love's alight, life's aloft in this night's draught of naught. Be lonely no more.

Craving Cherry

by R. Newell
from the manuscript, Mist on the Mountain: a Collection of Randy Love Poems

Your glimmering succulence

bleeds like a heart still beating 

from beneath the baked buttered

lattice crust, spills

onto the porcelain plate, juicy 

crimson staining crackled white,

drips from your silver monogrammed fork 

onto trembling lips

moistened with anticipation. 

Tongue tasted, tried, and ever true, 

you serve a delectable sun sweetened ripeness

with attentive intention.

The Blood Orange Marmalade Blues

by R. Newell

from the manuscript, Mist on the Mountain: a Collection of Randy Love Poems

Baby, put the kettle on;

Honey, squeeze the juice.

The morning sun is rising

and I ain’t done with you.

Gimme shugga in my coffee,

honey in my tea

an’ spread your sweet lovin’

like jam all over me.

Never mind the phone;

Let that doorbell be.

Just get yourself on back

in bed up close next to me.

Momma, bless my soul;

Papa, close your eyes.

Your little girl’s got

herself an appetite.

Gonna break my fast,

gonna eat real slow,

May take all day,

you never know.

Honey, never mind the kettle;

Baby, forget about the juice.

The morning sun has risen

and I still ain’t done with you. 

Saucy Vixen

by R. Newell

from the manuscript, Mist on the Mountain: a Collection of Randy Love Poems

You stir in me

songs long silenced,

stimulate a settled sauciness

that suits the well seasoned if ill reasoned,

and resurrect a sultry succulent vixen with a lustful determination to seduce.

Commuting the Physics of Life

by R. Newell

from the manuscript, WabiSabi: Imperfect Poems of Being

Sitting in my Celica barricaded deep

in five grid-lock lanes, I sip

coffee from an insulated cup

through a bendy straw

and glance at the industrial towers

and smoke stacks lining the waterfront

south of town looming

in the outward bound sea mist.

The twin cranes blink

in the gloom. The Boxing Gandhi’s

CD seems suddenly perfect.

“Find Your Thing” a National City billboard reads.

“Thrive.” I stare at it long and hard

and do a double take when the traffic

rolls forth, knowing

all too well the power

of thriving versus surviving. I do. I

look down at my exposed legs,

skirt hiked high, heels kicked off

for ease of shifting

and am seriously sobered

and sickened as I ease my bare left foot

off the clutch and shift

into second creeping forward

along with the rows of cars

beginning to flow forth,

workers on route

to earn another day’s dollar.

I realize that I have returned

to what I had left

so that I might live,

have again committed

to balancing the mundane

with that which excites,

stimulates and ignites.

To survive by day,

thrive by night

when once

not too long ago

every day

was a Sunday.

Tracks 

by R. Newell

from the manuscript,  WabiSabi: Imperfect Poems of Being

Some nurse old scars

as if phantom pains were real

rather than figments of tortured imaginations,

limp through life as if broken bones hadn’t long healed

straight and fine,

feeling worthless as if they weren’t whole

and true and good as before the harm had hurt them.

Others shrug them off until barely a line is visible

distinguishing the tracks

of their trials from the wrinkles wrought by time.

We are

all, each of us,

aged treasure maps with stained tales

of brazen adventures and smudges of ill fated choices,

of torn youthful dreams

and smothered hopes, ferocious

fantasies, and pulsing passions. We are not different,

you and I, rocking

our fragmented innocence

in the velvet depths of darkness,

humming New Moon lullabies, seeking soothing wholeness

of a comfortable acceptance

from among a galaxy of stars, thinking love

a comfrey infused salve, the place above and beyond

that which lies

within in.

Gaspeite

by R. Newell

from the manuscript, Still Life: Poems About Food

The grape rolls off the plate

and I drop as it falls from the table,

stretching in slow motion, reaching out,

just missing, and on bent knee search beneath

fringed rugs, the freestanding butcher block island,

my shoes piled where I kicked them off by the screen door,

the dog’s gutted once stuffed squirrel, potted succulents set in the sun

streaming through reed blinds from high above the canyon crawling with wild

cats lest the gaspeite globular lay forgotten until found, squashed on the sole of my foot. 

Morning Dew

by R. Newell

from the manuscript, Baby Bonnet: A Collection of Maternal Poems

I look deep inside

and see your world

sphered inside mine

true as morning dew

pearled on petals

of my garden's

flowers which I grow

with feathered patience

for love of you.

From the Grave I'll Breathe 

by R. Newell
from the manuscript,  Baby Bonnet: A Collection of Maternal Poems

Be assured, my love,
that there is nothing
barring my soul from yours--
not now, not ever.

No self inflicted barriers while we live,
nor posthumous earthen depths,
or weighty contrivances
when I'm dead.

No boxes, latches, or lids,
no dimensional veils or demonic beasts
guarding other worldly thresholds.
No infernal flame--

nothing can effectuate
severance, clefting our communion.
Nothing. No ill-begotted curse
issued in a frenzy can damn us
to eternal isolation.
Nothing.

Because death is not enough
to exhaust my love,
trust me when I say
that even from the grave I'll breathe,
as I do now, for love of you.

From the grave I'll breathe
and with each graveled gasp expressed
you'll see me in the wind blown trees,
hear me in a contented sigh,
and taste me in home baked pie.

With ever breath I heave once gone
you'll feel me, encasing you like the goose down
in your beloved feather bed.

Look--just look--and you'll see
my undying love
in absolutely everything.

Red

by R. Newell 

from the manuscript, The Phil and Sophia Poems

There is a red hue settled in the south western setting sky

that’s the blood of painted dreams.

It spills onto the saged brush and from adobe pallet puddles

into my wine glass

set beneath the juniper latia portella where I sip lip rimmed

burgundy enchantment.